The Bad Things We Do
by Quinnzical
Summary: AU: 17 Year Old Sherlock is committed to Wellington Asylum, after a failed suicide attempt, by his Guardian and Brother, Mycroft. Does salvation lie within the madhouse, or will he descend past the point of sanity?
1. Welcome To The Madhouse

A/N: Sherlock, 17. Mycroft, 24. John, 19, Molly 20, Moriarty 18, Lestrade, 31.

The Bad Things We Do

Alternate Universe

Written By: Sophie Quinn

Ask him why, and Sherlock will never give you an answer that you'll like. He will give you an answer, most certainly, but it will infuriate you, frustrate you, confuse you, annoy you, eventually it will cease to surprise you and when you're at the very end of your rope, he will smile and it will sadden you. The smile never reaches his eyes, you see. It will crinkle his cheeks, brighten his teeth, crease the edges of his brow and cause his chin to tilt up ever so slightly, but that brilliance of his grin will never show in the pale blue of his gaze. He will stare at you as you sit annoyed, confused, frustrated, and infuriated at him, and that stare will be empty.

The latest in a long string of people to learn this was a woman of her forties with bits of gray edging out along her temples, wrinkles at her eyes magnified by the strength of her prescription glasses and her thin lips pressed tightly together in a precise frown. A therapist, Sherlock's latest, the edge of her pen paused momentarily on her notepad, the careful handwriting stretching out over the white surface like cracks in a thin layer of ice. Words like 'anti-social', 'manic depressive', 'prone to self-harm', and 'troubled' scratched out alongside 'obsessive compulsive', 'sociopath', and 'dangerous'. Her long, knobby fingers twitching as she shifted beneath his piercing gaze.

He did little more than arch up a brow, and shift his lanky limbs out a bit more along the length of the leather sofa in her office. Unruly curls falling away from his brow, his lips parting ever so slightly as he craned his neck to watch her more directly. She jotted notes, he said nothing and they remained that way as the clock on the wall continued to tick the seconds passing them by. Sherlock was acutely aware of the vigilant timepiece, and the grin at his lips curled up ever so slightly as the hands fell into place to announce the hour.

"Five O'clock, Doctor." He muttered, swinging his legs from the arm of the couch as he stood with absolute grace and determination. Fetching his coat from the hook at the back of the door, he flung it over his shoulders with a flourish, pausing only to adjust the collar in the reflection of a picture frame. "I think that is all for one day, don't you? My brother will be here momentarily to pick me up and I mustn't keep him waiting."

"I am afraid not, Sherlock." Her voice was steeled and it was enough to cause him a moment of hesitation, his fingertips stilled over the woolen fabric of his jacket and his brow peaking slightly. "He isn't coming, not this time."

"What?" He turned so sharply that the tails of his coat spun out behind him, his eyes narrowed almost dangerously at the woman before him.

"You need help, Sherlock, help that you have not been able to get from your other therapists, and help you're not getting from me." She sighed softly as she stood, the notepad hissing along her desk as she slid it away and lay the pen atop the pages. "There is a taxi waiting outside to take you to Wellington."

"Wellington?" He blinked slightly, bringing a hand up as the sudden need to scratch the disbelief from his skull consumed him. "Wellington. You can't just send me off to _Wellington. _It's a madhouse!"

"It's a hospital, and I am not sending you. Your brother, as your legal guardian, has signed the commitment paperwork. Mycroft just wants what is best for you, Sherlock. You're seventeen... you have your whole life ahead of you. We both just want you to get better."

"There is nothing wrong with me." Sherlock scoffed, the emptiness within his cold, blue gaze, deepening with every word that fell from her thin lips. Every consonant, every vowel, cutting at him deeper than any blade he had ever pressed into his pale skin. He said little else, if nothing at all, as she continued speaking to him. Her words drifting off as he clenched his fists, dug his fingernails deeply into his palms, and tried to draw from the faint twinge of pain a solid sensation that he could focus. "There is nothing wrong with me!"

"Sherlock..." Her voice remained calm, her tone stayed even, and as she perched against the edge of her desk, she even managed a comforting smile. "You swallowed a whole bottle of painkillers."

"I had a headache."

"..with an entire bottle of vodka."

He grinned slightly, his eyes snapping up to meet her own as he watched her from beneath his eye lashes. She remained steady, letting a soft breath shift past her lips as the emptiness in his eyes sent tremors along her spine. "It was a bad headache."

"The taxi is waiting, Sherlock. It will take you directly to Wellington, with strict instructions not to stop anywhere along the way so don't get any ideas. Your doctor will meet you once you arrive and you will be staying there until you get the help that you need." She shook her head slightly, finally moving away from the stability of her desk to open the door to her office, one hand stretched out as she gestured for him to exit. "It really is for the best, Sherlock."

"Out of sight, out of mind, Doctor? I have no doubts that this will be for the best for you.. and for Mycroft." He didn't bother to grin, and barely found it in himself to snap a glare at her as he approached the waiting cabbie and slid despondently into the back seat. With steady hands he slid the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, ignoring the boldly printed sign mere inches from his face that proclaimed the vehicle to be non-smoking. Resting the filter between his lips, he flicked his thumb at his lighter and lit the tip. The cabbie only glanced at him as the engine roared to life, the wisps of blue tobacco smoke whipping out of the cracked window while the scenery slowly changed and all that was familiar, vanished.

* * *

><p>Wellington Rehabilitation and Asylum was little more than a glorified prison for those that society deemed to be a little bit too 'off' for the normal lock ups. Bars adorned every window, and heavy locks kept every entrance sealed securely both day and night. A large iron fence surrounded the small, well-kept grounds and the only way to approach the building itself was through a small gate at the end of a very long, very foreboding pathway. Massive trees surrounded the property outside the line of metal spikes, the towering limbs were covered so thickly in leaves that not a breath of wind managed to breach the hospital. The stillness of air as a result was all together on the edge of being terrifying in itself, it's only positive note was that it made it relatively easy to light a cigarette as Sherlock stood waiting just outside the small entrance gate.<p>

He was midway through his fifth drag when he had entertained the idea of simply making a run for the trees, escaping the entire affair all together and living on his own somewhere to the south. Maybe a nice place in Cardiff under an assumed name, something normal like Micheal, or even Aaron. He held the filter of his cigarette between his lips, pulling in a deep drag before letting the blue smoke drift lazily out from his lungs. It burned slightly, but that was alright as it was just a precursor to the vague tingle that numbed the edge of his lips and sent the corner of his vision swimming.

Idle thoughts of escape shattering as the faint click of leather against the stone walk way echoed closer, and the jingling of keys against the hip of whomever approached sang in the silence. He turned to regard the blond man with another deep pull at the filter, sizing him up in one languid glance as he felt the other's gaze drift over his own lanky form. They regarded each other for a moment as the gate was unlocked and slowly swung open, but neither thought to say a word. What would they say, in those moments, that would hold any weight? Nice weather we're having. Love what you've done with the place. Prison decor goes fantastically with the color of your uniform, really brings out the blue in your eyes.

"This way, Mr. Holmes." The blond muttered, gesturing slightly towards the path that would lead Sherlock to his incarceration. "You'll have time to finish that, there's no smoking inside the buildings. There is also no use of mobile phones, if you have one on you. Personal calls can be made during the designated times and then it's only for ten minutes. Visitors must check in at the front desk, all visitors must be approved."

Sherlock scoffed, letting the cigarette burn slowly between his fingertips. "Who would want to visit someone like me?"

He received a sad little smile in response and nothing more, the jingling of the keys filling the void when the conversation drifted off. Sherlock toyed with the idea of lighting up another cigarette as they approached the brick building if only to prolong the very last minutes of freedom before he was locked away for good. It wasn't likely that he would ever be let out again, he knew what sort of influence Mycroft could have even at a the beginning of his political career. If his dear elder brother wanted nothing to do with him, then he would disappear and there was little he could do to stop it, short from breaking into a sprint.

"I was all state in track.." The blond said suddenly, a lazy grin on his lips as he hesitated in opening the locks to the hospital entrance. "In case you were thinking of running off. I was all state in track, so I'm faster than I look."

"Do people often run?" He raised a brow, his hands plunging deep within the pockets of his jacket.

"No. Not really, but you had that look about you." The blond shifted the keys in his hand long enough to offer a handshake, a gesture that earned a confused twist of Sherlock's brow as he did little more than glance down at the proffered appendage. "Greg Lestrade."

"Is it customary to be so friendly with the inmates, Lestrade?"

"Not at all. I'm not even supposed to talk to the patients outside of the usual list of rules and regulations."

"You're not a doctor."

"Just an intern, mostly an orderly. I keep things tidy and safe as possible, but there's no harm in a little civility now and then, I think, and you looked like you could use a friend."

Sherlock scoffed, his lips tightening for a moment as he flicked out the small pack of smokes from his pocket and lit one deftly. "I don't make _friends,_Lestrade, and if I did, it certainly wouldn't be with someone like you."

"...Right.." He frowned, lowering the hand that was being held out for a shake as he fumbled through the keys for the proper one to fit the lock. It slid into place and clicked open loudly as the silence around them grew thick. He shot one more glance up at the young brunette behind him, motioning idly towards the smoldering cigarette. "Put it out and get inside. You have to be processed."

* * *

><p>Molly Hooper was a young but experienced nurse. She had been subjected to all manner of injuries, both accidental and self inflicted, and she had assisted in treating numerous emergency incidents that tried both her skills and her nerves. She was calm and collected in the worst of situations, a level head on her shoulders and determination gleaming in her eyes. Very few things could startle her and very few things could cause her surprise. Not to say that she was impervious to a good shock to the nervous system, as like any warm blooded human being, she had her weaknesses. Small furry rodents running towards her bare feet, jumpy little spiders inches away from her face, or the tips of her fingers brushing against something unidentified as she felt beneath the cabinet for a dropped pen, were all things that could cause Molly Hooper to yelp quietly and much to her embarrassment. Everything else, she could most definitely, without a doubt, absolutely, handle without the least bit of insecurities.<p>

At least, this is what she tried to convince herself of whenever she looked at her own reflection and saw nothing but wide-eyed, mousy Molly Hooper staring back, looking as if the slightest noise would cause her to jump straight out of her skin.

Greg gave a tap to the thick safety-glass window that kept Molly separated from the male patience of the minimum security wing, and she did just that. Her yelp bordered on a squeal of terror as she spun around and sent a glass jar of cotton balls spilling about on the tiles. The sound drew the attention of several teenage boys milling about the room, and a few of the orderlies in charge of keeping them all complacent. Sherlock didn't glance her way, even as she started apologizing profusely despite having done nothing wrong in the situation. His attention was trained on a boy around his own age, dark hair and piercing eyes, leering at him from across the room. The look, positively murderous, did not falter from Sherlock's lanky form even as the other boys grew momentarily loud and rambunctious in the wake of Molly's horrified scream.

Sherlock stared back, unwavering.

"Molly, really, it's alright. I startled you. Again. I should have known better." Greg was trying his best to reassure the young woman, settling instead for pulling in a steady breath to keep from joining in her own frantic twitching. "Don't even worry about it. Look, there is a new patient that needs to be processed. The usual affair, check his vitals and make sure all the paperwork is filled out properly, inventory his personals, and I'll get him into appropriate clothing before taking him to his room. You've been here a month, it will be simple."

Perhaps it was the sound of his voice, a calm in the cacophony of chaos, but Molly visibly stilled, smiled softly, and nodded. "Alright, Greg."

The heavy door to her small exam room clicked loudly as the latch was unlocked from within, and Greg did little more than hold out a hand to indicate that Sherlock should enter. The lanky teen, all curly hair and lean limbs, was far too distracted with his current staring competition with the boy across the room to notice and it took several repeats in Greg's calming baritone to snap his attention back where it belonged.

The exam itself was routine and Sherlock rolled his eyes as often as possible as Molly checked his vitals, made notes regarding his medical history, and gave him a sad little smile every time he regaled her and Greg with every encounter of an overdose of pills, a binge of alcohol, or the reasons why his pale skin was littered with fading scars of a razor blade.

"I am crazy." He said suddenly as Molly's thin lips turned down again, her unasked inquiries as to why someone so young would be so self-destructive ringing loudly in the silence of the room. "Completely out of my mind, beyond redemption, incurable. Isn't that why I am here? It would be so much more cost effective for the government if people like me were all destroyed, wouldn't it? But there are things like ethics and moral codes. Better to lock us away and forget where the key has been hidden."

Molly found herself stilled by his words, sharp and biting, full of nameless accusations towards anyone that wasn't currently being processed for in-patient care. Greg seemed unfazed, as if this wasn't the first mad man, or teenager as it were, to come up with such ludicrous ideologies. He merely held out Sherlock's shirt, waited for him to take it, and turned slightly to unlock the door that had latched behind them. "Don't forget the paperwork, Molly. I will bring you some tea once Sherlock is settled in."

_Settled in_, Sherlock mused as he slowly worked the buttons of his shirt back into place. _Settled in. A_s if he was checking into a weekend bed and breakfast, though, he was certain the experience wouldn't differ all that much. Mummy had taken him and Mycroft to a quaint little place in the country one summer, and it shared many similarities with Wellington. Full of eccentric people, none of which truly wished to be there, likely substandard food, uncomfortable beds, and a ridiculous schedule of activities meant to stimulate the _guests_and to keep the experience from falling into stagnation. He sighed softly as Greg led the way, pausing only for a moment at a locked cabinet that held varying sizes of the exact same style of t-shirt, elastic waistband trousers, slip on shoes, white socks, and ghastly pants. With no more than a glance at Sherlock's lean figure, he pulled out several of each article of clothing and immediately held them out for the younger boy to take. "You'll be wearing these. Standard issue uniforms given to all patients unless regulation approved clothing is sent by your family."

Sherlock scoffed, eyeing the horrific ensemble with a glare meant to set the fabric ablaze. When it failed to ignite, or even smolder, he reluctantly took the bundle from Greg's waiting hands and scowled further at the rough texture and low thread count. He would rather wrap himself in sandpaper and roll about in a pile of steel wool than have to wear these scratchy fabrics, every day, for the rest of his life. "I will not."

Greg stopped the moment Sherlock did and glanced back at him as he heard the clothing hit the floor with a muffled thud. One of the shoes toppled off a bit, but neither moved to retrieve the items. "They are standard issue, Sherlock."

"They are tortuous and obscene, and I will not be wearing them." Folding his arms over his chest, he lifted his chin and clenched his teeth together. A long, strange moment of silence passed between them and Greg did little more than raise a brow in curious amazement.

"Alright." Greg stated simply, his compliance with the refusal earning a momentary flicker of surprise across Sherlock's features. "Then you can walk around in the nude."

"Don't be childish." He scoffed at the idea, eyeing the clothing with absolute disdain before he simply walked away from them. He could hear Lestrade following him after a moment, a second's glance over his shoulder confirmed the orderly to be carrying the previously discarded outfit. It only took a few paces for Greg to overcome Sherlock's long gait, passing him by as he regained the lead down the hallway. He rolled his eyes dramatically and followed after.

They stopped when they came to a simple room with no more than a twin sized bed, a small wardrobe, and a plain writing desk shoved against a far corner. There was little room to walk around and it reaffirmed the idea that this was less a hospital and more of a prison. Idly, he glanced at the door to see if it locked from the outside, completely unsurprised when he found a heavy bolt latched to the exterior, but no latch on the inside to keep people from wandering in. There was no doubt in his mind that it would be used several times throughout his little stay at Wellington, and he was almost looking forward to finding out if he could discover a means to break free from it.

"Lights out at nine, breakfast at six, then you'll be given a schedule that is specific to you. I may coincide with some of the others, but most of the time you will be taking part in therapy, group sessions, activities. Lunch is at noon and dinner at six in the evening. You are free to use the bathrooms at any time, as well as the showers, but you must request an escort and will not be allowed on your own at any time without supervision." Greg continued with a list of regulations that seemed so rehearsed, Sherlock presumed he had said it a thousand times before. "You're allowed phone time on request, if you've earned the privilege. No patients are allowed off grounds, but there are times, weather permitting, when we all go outside for a bit. If you want to smoke, you need to request an escort for that too. No one is allowed out of the building between eight in the evening and seven in the morning. Medications are distributed after breakfast and again before lights out, you are required to take them so please do not cause any trouble by refusing. If you don't take them willingly, you will be given your prescribed dosage by hypodermic. Any unruly behavior and you may be restrained until you are able to compose yourself in a calm and orderly fashion. Follow the rules, attend your therapy sessions, group meetings, partake in activities, and you'll be out of here before you know it."

"Is that all?" He fought the urge to tear at his own hair, long bony fingers curling violently into his palms as every restriction grated further into his nerves.

"I am not leaving until you are properly dressed." Greg nearly smirked, one hand held out for the garments. Sherlock glanced over at him, a half beat of tense silence passing between them before he started stripping off all of his clothing. Angry tugs at buttons and frustrated pulls at the sleeves, making every movement seem unnecessarily violent. He tossed his pack of cigarettes onto the writing desk, not bothering to ask if he was allowed to keep the lighter as he figured if buttons were a danger, something that could start fires was certainly forbidden. A dull shiver passed over his exposed skin and Greg motioned towards the wardrobe. "There are a few extra blankets in the bottom drawer to keep you warm until you decide to dress in the appropriate uniform."

As he turned to leave with Sherlock's clothing hanging over one arm, Greg paused just inside the door frame and regarded him with a glance and a smile before he disappeared all together. It took the span of a slow breath from his lips before Sherlock was off the mattress and ripping off the overly starched sheet so he could wrap it around his shoulders. The makeshift toga did little for warmth but it was suitable for modesty as he awkwardly shuffled to the writing desk to fetch his cigarettes. He wondered briefly, as he flicked one from the paper box and slid the packet of matches from inside, how long it would take before someone came running to scold him. He hadn't even finished exhaling the first bit of noxious blue smoke before there was a light tapping at his door frame.

"Naughty, Naughty.." The intense stare of the boy his age had not faltered in the slightest as Sherlock turned to regard him, taking a slow and pointed drag from the filter as if to say 'I really could care less'. or perhaps 'I am not here for good behavior.' "You're going to be trouble, aren't you? Bringing defiance and excitement to our little party of misfits?"

"I don't see how it is any of your concern."

"Love the outfit."

"This old thing?"

The boy grinned, a dark shadow flickering through his gaze as he breached the threshold to Sherlock's room and took three purposeful steps towards him. Slender fingers on an unwavering hand reached out and _plucked _the cigarette from his own grasp. "This is a terrible habit. These will kill you, you know."

The boy with the dark hair, dangerous eyes and a soft Irish accent, took a slow and almost sexual drag from Sherlock's cigarette. His eyes closed slowly, and his lips parted as he exhaled with a low and vulgar moan. Sherlock did little more than watch with his sheet-toga wrapped tightly around his skinny frame and his fingers twitching against each other. A singular brow raised as the cigarette was offered back to him, but he made no move to take it.

"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock pushed an impatient breath from his lungs, turning to focus his gaze on what lay beyond the barred window behind the writing desk. The view wasn't much, though he could see a great deal of the enclosed courtyard and a rather large grouping of the looming trees.

"This is the start of a beautiful friendship, Sherlock." He crooned softly, slowly moving closer until Sherlock could _feel _his breath against the exposed skin of his shoulder. "You and I were made for each other._._"

The boy was gone from his room nearly as fast as he arrived, and Sherlock was left with a cigarette that had slowly begun to smother itself out on the tile flooring. He let a slow breath pass his lips, one hand clutching the sheet around his shoulders, the other slinking out from beneath the fabric to tangle up into his unruly curls. The sudden silence brought an unforgiving headache to the forefront of his skull and the severity of it was nearly blinding. He tried to block out the throbbing behind his eyes, too many thoughts raging in his already overactive mind. Sherlock needed to find something to distract himself, something to occupy his subconscious before his brain simply imploded and killed him.

Pointedly refusing to don himself in the atrocious clothing provided by Lestrade, Sherlock shifted the sheet slightly to lift it from the floor and made cautious steps back into the hall. There were faint sounds of trilling laughter echoing softly from the common room where patients were allowed to gather, and silence reached out to him from the opposite direction. Though it was stimulation he sought, there was little that was appealing to him in being _social_with those that certainly had a reason to be committed.

From the silence broke two very hushed, very hesitant, notes played clearly on a clarinet. They were not followed by any more for several beats, but when the subsequent music began to play, Sherlock found himself entranced. It was skilled, if not a bit cautious, and almost hauntingly beautiful in its depressive melody. He found himself moving towards it without an active thought telling his feet which direction to go; lured along by a mysterious song being played by mysterious hands. Hands, which he discovered upon peering past a barely cracked open door, belonged to a very small, very blond boy who was nearly drowning in the most hideous jumper he had ever seen.

Sherlock knew instantly that the jumper came from a family member, though it was not intended for the boy, himself. It was far too large and had been hastily repaired in several places, including the ends of the sleeves which were worn down nearly threadbare. He tilted his head to the side slightly as he nudged the door open further, leaning within for a better look. The hinges gave a ghastly squeak and in a flash the clarinet was dropped and Sherlock was met with two very blue, very wide, and very startled eyes, staring at him.

As if he had suddenly cornered a wild rabbit, Sherlock moved into the room slowly and made a wide circle away from the door. He was followed with every step that his bare feet slapped against the tile, the startled stare constant and unblinking even as Sherlock neared a chair and lowered himself into it. Neither boy said a word to the other, both just watching and waiting for something to happen, some catalyst that would push the other into reacting. When no explosive event sparked action, the boy with the mop of curly blond hair leaned down to retrieve the dropped clarinet and set it carefully back within its case.

"You don't have to stop." Sherlock muttered, almost hoping that the odd little musician would continue to play if only because he sought out a selfish distraction. There was an almost unnoticeable struggle painted across the boy's face as he lightly fingered the instrument, letting the pad of his thumb lightly caress over the silver keys and chrome accents. He shook his head and sent blond curls flipping about, his surprised gaze breaking way to one of infinite sadness.

"We're not s'posed to play the instruments..." He nearly whispered, a half beat of hesitation between closing the case and lovingly taking up the clarinet once more before heavy footsteps in the hall had him snapping the cover closed. Sherlock watched as he quickly shoved the case back into a cabinet, his brow twitching as he took note of a severe and awkward limp impeding the boy's progress as he rushed away from it.

"John?" Lestrade pushed the door open completely, raising a surprised brow at finding Sherlock sitting so casually within, wrapped up in nothing but a sheet. "John, we have discussed this...back to your room, and Sherlock, a bed sheet is not an appropriate substitute for the uniform."

"I don't see why not, it's provided by the hospital." He raised his chin slightly, pushing himself up from the chair, completely aware of the faintest of grins that curled the down turned lips of his mysterious musician. The boy, John, did not linger any longer and slowly limped his way past Lestrade. Greg only waited until he was out of earshot to let a sigh fall from his lips, the weary hand rubbing at his forehead again as he regarded Sherlock as one would regard a petulant child.

"If you wish to be defiant and make this difficult on yourself, by all means, but don't interfere with the treatment of the other patients."

"I wasn't interfering."

"What do you call this then?"

"_Socializing_."

"Yeah well, it won't do you much good to socialize with that one. He hasn't said a word in four years, now get back to your room, get dressed and I will take you down to the mess hall. It's time for the evening meal." Lestrade shook his head and heaved another lengthy sigh, stepping back as he held the door open. Sherlock made his way from the room without a word and with little argument, much to Greg's surprise. He even went directly to his bedroom and picked up the discarded bundle of offending clothes and set about dressing himself within the scratchy fabric.

Curious and worthy of further examination, Sherlock was so preoccupied by this sudden puzzle that he hadn't set aside the brain processes required to refuse submission any further. He was certain, without a doubt, clear as crystal and loud as the rolling thunder, that the boy who had not said a word in four years, had definitely spoke to him.

But _why_?

* * *

><p>"""""""""Reviews prevent Moriarty from turning you into <em>shoes.""""""""""<em>


	2. The Black Moods

**This story was inspired by the commentary during A Study In Pink, in which Gatiss and Moffat are discussing how a teenager sherlock must have been completely mad due to his intellect. Though it has similarities to Girl, Interrupted [apparently], it was never meant to be written so closely towards it. Any similarities are completely coincidental. that is all. **

**Chapter Two**

The 'Black Moods', as Mycroft was fond of calling them, were completely unpredictable, and completely unavoidable, bouts of severe downswings in Sherlock's mood. The best of them would have Sherlock in bed for a day or two, but he would still arrive on time for meals if only to stab at the food with his fork before retreating back to his room. The worst of them would have Sherlock in bed for weeks at a time, and it was a battle just to get him to nibble a bit of bread much less drag himself from the mattress to tend to personal hygiene matters. During all of them, Sherlock would barely speak and communicated only with a series of grunts and eye rolls. The only thing that Mycroft had ever discovered that would even begin to pull his little brother out of the depths of depression, was encouraging him to play the violin.

There was something almost magical about the sweet sounds of the strings being lovingly bowed, even if the melody itself was sad and haunting. When Sherlock played, it didn't matter if the song itself was riddled with stories of death, misery, and loss, because Mycroft knew that it signaled an end to the 'Black Moods' and the rebirth of the brother he knew. It was unfortunate when solitude and the soft notes of a violin were no longer enough to break the vice of despair, heartbreaking for the eldest Holmes when Sherlock turned to far more destructive ways of coping with his own mind.

He still couldn't fathom what he would have done had he not come home early from work _that day._The day that he found Sherlock lying in the grass beneath a large oak tree, his eyes glass, his lips blue and his skin ice cold.

'Any later', the doctors said, '…and we wouldn't have been able to save him.' Sherlock's stomach contained sixty four partially digested tablets, a liter of alcohol, and the remains of what they presumed to be a handful of crisps eaten to quell the nausea.

'He tried to prevent vomiting.' They told him, 'Though it would have been inevitable once the medication fully dissolved. His state of unconsciousness would have likely resulted in asphyxiation.'

"Have you considered seeking professional help for your brother?' As if Sherlock wasn't already seeing a therapist nearly every day, 'There is a hospital for boys like him.' _Like him, _damaged, faulty, broken beyond repair.

'Wellington. I will make sure you get a pamphlet on it before you take him home. As a doctor, I would strongly recommend you consider it, Mr. Holmes, before it is too late.' _You've done the best you could, you're out of options. Lock him away, throw away the key._

Mycroft ran a hand through his already thinning hair, his gaze drifting around Sherlock's vacant room with a perpetual frown on his lips. Various chemistry sets sat mid-experiment across the surface of his brother's desk and dresser, his violin lay abandoned across the bed. Framed pictures of Edgar Allen Poe, the Periodic Table, and the rules for The Art of Bartitsu decorating otherwise undecorated walls.

The Holmes household, typically filled with arguing and discontent, had never felt so empty.

* * *

><p>It was the screaming that woke Sherlock from his sleep.<p>

A bloodcurdling cry of agony piercing through the silence of the hospital that shook him from even the deepest of drug induced slumbers. He thought, for a moment as he struggled against his heavy limbs and weighted eyelids, that it might have been his imagination. He thought that it might have been the remnant of one of his own nightmares; one of the dark visions that plagued his own mind and slowly tore it to shreds. When he was certain that he was awake and it sounded, yet again, Sherlock pushed himself from the mild comfort of his bed and crept to the doorway.

In the hall, patients had all come out from their rooms. Curiously demented eyes stared down to a room at the very corner, where light pierced the shadows of the hallway and shadows moved rapidly within. Two orderlies he had not yet met and one very tired looking doctor rushed passed, all giving orders for the patients to return to their rooms, yet none seemed willing to comply. Sherlock was included in this, far too curious to simply go back to sleep, despite the lingering effects of narcotics making every moment ghost by him.

"Johnny Boy has seen some bad, bad things." Jim crooned near his ear, though Sherlock was puzzled as to how the other boy had managed to creep so close to him without him noticing. "The screaming never stops at night. The monsters beneath his bed are very, very real."

"Monsters?" Sherlock asked softly, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears as his vision swam and his eyes drooped for a moment. He never received an answer as a cacophony of yelling broke into silence and the shadows shifted to reveal the two orderlies carrying the boy from his room. Johnny Boy, John, the mysterious musician from hours before that had captured and captivated every ounce of Sherlock's attention. A mop of blonde hair plastered against a sweat soaked brow, his eyes closed and mouth parted as he was nearly dragged along the hallway. Rendered completely unconscious from fast acting drugs, Sherlock thought he should look peaceful, but still seemed absolutely tormented by whatever nightmares caused him to scream so dreadfully.

Greg approached with a hand brushing heavily back through his greying hair, his interrupted sleep showing in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the disheveled nature of his clothing. "Alright, you two, get back to your rooms. Jim, you know the rules. No one in the halls after lights out."

"I never miss a good show, Lestrade, not from Johnny Boy. He's so much fun.."

"Leave him be, Jim. I won't warn you again." Greg motioned pointedly towards the open door that was Jim's room and held his hand aloft until he shuffled off, disappearing within. Sherlock did not move from his place against his door frame, anchored by unknown and unseen forces as he stared emptily down towards John's, now vacant, room. "You too, Mr. Holmes. The rules do not bend, even for you."

It took him a long moment between heavy blinks to even bring his gaze up to meet Lestrade's, though the elder man seemed disinclined to follow through on his order. He stood, uneven on his feet, leaning heavily against the door frame as the world became distant and foggy. How long it had been since sleep weighed so firmly on his mind, how long it had been since he thought of nothing other than simply lying down and slipping into unconsciousness! He hardly realized he had moved back into his room, and distantly registered the door clicking closed behind him as he slid back between the scratchy sheets, drifting off once more.

* * *

><p>When morning broke, violent in its persistent brightness, Sherlock did little more than grunt his displeasure before pulling the sheets over his head. Every inch of him protested the slightest movement, the worst being his own skull which relentlessly throbbed. The narcotics he swallowed the night before, lingered, but only enough to make his thoughts fuzzy and distant. They did little to quell the oncoming headache and the misery it would beget.<p>

Perhaps it was a foolish notion of hope that had wormed its way into his subconscious as he slept, but Sherlock thought for just a moment that it would be the comfort of his own bed that greeted him as he woke. The smell of familiar fabric softener on his sheets, the plushness of his own pillow, the sounds of the household staff moving about on the wooden floors around his own room. He found, instead, scents of disinfectant, a pillow that was far too firm and the noise of disconcerting madness echoing from the hallway.

With clarity replacing the fuzz of medication, so came the reality of his involuntary situation and it weighed him down so heavily on the uncomfortable mattress that he had little motivation to move at all. Though soft, the knock at his door sounded like a battering ram, and he winced beneath the sheets.

"Breakfast, Sherlock." Greg muttered, and Sherlock could _feel_him lingering at the doorway. Seconds ticked by, each one slowly and silently counted as the young boy curled up in bed waited to hear the door click closed once more. "Ten minutes, I will be back to take you down to the showers."

Content to force himself into unconsciousness, Sherlock did not move from his bed and willed himself back to sleep.

* * *

><p>His door opened two more times that morning. Nine minutes and forty three seconds brought Lestrade's return and persistent nagging that he remove himself from his sheets and join the others for a meal, when he did not, Greg moved on to someone else. Twenty minutes and fifteen seconds later brought a quiet hum and the weight of someone sitting at the foot of his bed.<p>

"You're not going to be one of _those_people, are you?" Jim crooned, trailing a finger over the curve of his leg hidden beneath the blanket. "I had rather high hopes for you, Sherlock. I'd prefer it if you didn't disappoint me by turning out to be completely ordinary."

Sherlock listened as Jim moved from the bed and fetched the pack of cigarettes discarded on the desk, clenching his jaw in mild annoyance as he noted the sound of a match being struck. The familiar scent of burning tobacco and sulphur filling his bedroom as the boy helped himself to one of the smokes, sitting back near his feet to take a long drag.

"Upset with your brother for locking you away?" The comment earned a slight shift of limbs as Sherlock's attention was caught and he could almost feel the grin that curled up on Moriarty's lips. "Don't be so surprised. I know _all _about you. I have friends, you see, in the most convenient places."

When Sherlock did not move again, and refused to answer anything more than a slow exhale of breath to calm his growing agitation, Jim stood with only a slight pat to his thigh. "I will leave you to your brooding, then. When you've snapped out of it, feel free to come out and play. Nighty-night."

Sherlock did finally pull himself from the mattress when his willpower over basic bodily needs finally wore down. Greg tried to converse with him while they walked to the bathroom, and lingered by quietly while he relieved himself, washed his hands, and shuffled back to his room. He barely registered any attempts at communication, not even granting the older man a grunt in response as he moved reflexively through the hallway.

"The dining hall is this way, Sherlock. You need to eat something." Greg frowned as Sherlock turned the opposite way he pointed, taking long strides back to his room where he promptly curled back within his bedding. "Sherlock..."

"The human body can survive up to four weeks without food." He muttered into his pillow, tugging the sheet over his head to block out the searing lights of the hospital and persistent beams of sunlight through the window. "Almost fourteen days without water."

"You won't be allowed to starve yourself, Sherlock." Greg's hand was in his hair again, vaguely tugging at the greying strands at his scalp. "A few bites of a muffin won't kill you."

"Not hungry."

Lestrade sighed heavily, throwing up a hand in defeat as he began to pull the door closed. "Fine. You keep it up for too long and they'll just have you strapped down and hooked to an IV."

The door clicked closed far louder than it needed to, leaving Sherlock to the throbbing in his skull and the growling in his stomach. It would subside, as it always did, once the first terrible pangs of hunger gave way to nothingness. He closed his eyes and silently recounted the periodic table, letting the familiarity of science lull him back to sleep.

* * *

><p>Three days.<p>

Three days passed while Sherlock grew more introverted and withdrawn from those around him. He emerged from his room only to shuffle to the bathroom and back, pointedly avoiding Lestrade whenever he approached with some pathetic excuse for food or a glass of water. Jim continued his spontaneous visits when the orderlies were away dealing with one of the others, crooning disconcerting notions of affection and smoking away his pack of cigarettes.

Narcotic filled nights were broken by the screaming from the room at the end of the hall. Clockwork and predictable that Sherlock found himself waking on reflex in the seconds of silence before the howls of a terrified boy broke through the shadows. He didn't need to pull himself from bed to know that John was being carried past his room, the sound of hospital issued sneakers squeaking along the tiled floor as he was dragged to an unknown location.

It was long past the scheduled lunch hour when Lestrade was at his door again, tip-tapping at the framing before Sherlock felt the sheet being pulled away from the bed. He didn't move, not even a twitch of acknowledgement to having lost his coverings before strong hands were on his arms, pulling him away from the pillow. What protest he had planned was thwarted when he realized that he simply lacked the energy to refuse motion, going limp as he was tugged to his feet and nudged towards the door. Walking seemed like a ghostly action, only the warmth of a hand at the small of his back and one wrapped strongly around his forearm kept him moving forward.

"Where..." Sherlock managed, furrowing his brow as he was led down the hallway towards the showers and promptly placed inside one of them. Fully clothed, the stream of water hit him ice cold and shocked his system into full alert. Making a quick move to remove himself from the shower earned him a swift push back into the steady flow, his hair plastered down into his eyes. "Lestrade! This is madness!"

"No, this is necessary."

"It's childish!"

"I am dealing with a child." He took half a step into the shower to adjust the water's temperature, letting his fingers dance slightly within the droplets to confirm its warmth before stepping back out. "Clean yourself up and there are some fresh clothes for you to wear when you're finished. After this, you _will_go to the dining hall and eat something. Anything, nibble a biscuit if that's all your stubborn nature can allow."

"I am not hungry." He protested, angrily tugging at the sopping wet clothing and tossing it to the floor at Lestrade's feet. The temperate water quelled the shivering that had begun to shake his fingers and chatter his teeth, but frustration kept his body tense.

"Look, Sherlock." Greg sighed slightly, taking a moment to retrieve the wet clothing that had been thrown at him. "You're not like the others. Whatever you've got going on in your head, it isn't an illness and I believe that maybe... one day... you will find what you need that will let you get it all straightened out. Until then, I am only trying to help. It would be nice if you could manage not to be such a git about it all, even for a moment."

Sherlock wanted to continue to argue with him, but discovered what little energy he had was going entirely to the effort of standing on his own two feet. He settled for a huff and an eye roll, leaning to let the flow of water drench his head completely as the warmth slowly worked out the tense ache in his shoulders. When he finally emerged he smelled less like a boy that had been refusing to get out of his bed and more like the generic soap the hospital provided. A slight improvement, Greg thought, but an improvement nonetheless.

* * *

><p>"How do you know I am different?" Sherlock asked after long and mildly awkward silences between the showers and the dining hall. The question earned him an odd little glance from Greg and a click of the older man's tongue as he debated revealing the source of his knowledge. "I don't behave much different. We've never met before."<p>

"I read your file." He admitted, shrugging as if it were perfectly normal for an orderly to have access to things typically only permitted to doctors and family. "You weren't always like this. So...it's not likely anything wrong physically. A bit like John."

"John?" He raised a brow, letting Greg fill a tray with various foods he likely wouldn't eat but avoided protesting against due to the suddenly interesting shift in conversational topic. "The boy who screams?"

"I really shouldn't be telling you anything about him, Sherlock."

"But you will." He nearly grinned, noting Lestrade's hesitation along with the cautious glance his attentive orderly gave to the room around them. "because you think that I may improve somehow because of him."

"Now don't put words in my mouth, I said nothing of the sort. You just have a similar history and you've both ended up here because of it. and..." He paused, setting the tray on an empty table before nudging Sherlock into the seat in front of it. "I saw the two of you together on your first day. John doesn't ...socialize, ever, with anyone. You had an effect on each other, that's all."

"You told me to stay away from him that first day." He commented, picking a small bit off of a slice of bread, vaguely amused at how hopeful Lestrade suddenly looked now that he had food in his hand.

"That was before I read your file."

"Yes... my file. What, exactly, does it say?"

"I can't tell you that, Sherlock."

"Why not? It's my file. I have a right to know."

"Look, I've said far too much already. Just... eat something."

"Hm. I'm not all that hungry, but thank you." Sherlock nudged the tray away from himself, standing with no more than a casual brush of his crumb laden fingers over the fabric of his trousers. He stood and swayed slightly, the room going a bit off kilter for a moment as his equilibrium swam about. "I am.. going back to my room."

"Sherlock..." Greg was at his side, a hand clutching lightly to his arm to keep him from simply falling over. Shrugging off the helpful hand, Sherlock move away from the table and fought back the dizzy spell that consumed him.

"I am fine, Lestrade."

Wellington's inhabitants were all slowly making their way from their own rooms by the time Sherlock shuffled to his own. A few curious glancing between incoherent conversations that they all seemed to be having with themselves, but none approached and he was perfectly alright with that fact. At the end of the hall, a blond mop of hair poked out from the crack between door and frame, and Sherlock paused in his retreat back to solitude to regard the boy with a long stare.

_You had an effect on each other. Similar histories. _

The door snapped shut behind him as he disappeared within, the definite click of the latch ringing in the sudden silence. Sherlock thought it was unlikely that there was anyone _like him, _and figured Greg was just an idiot of thinking so. In seventeen years of living, the only one that he ever had anything in common with was Mycroft, and they were nothing alike at all. Sherlock was a troubled genius with far too much on his mind, and Mycroft was a conniving prat who liked to meddle in absolutely everything that didn't concern him.

* * *

><p>Within the expanse of the Holmes household, a cell phone trilled as it rang. Falling into silence when no one answered, it sat untouched until it broke, once again, into its persistent tone. Mycroft glanced at it over the edge of his newspaper, eyeing the screen before snapping it up to accept the call.<p>

"Yes?"

"Mr. Holmes, it's Greg Lestrade."

"Ah, Gregory. How is my little brother doing?"

"Not well, Sir. I am having difficulty getting him to eat."

Mycroft fought back a sigh of frustration, lowering the newspaper to the table as he pinched the bridge of his nose and let his eyes close. "Gregory. I had you placed at Wellington specifically to look after Sherlock and so far, you are failing spectacularly at it."

"I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, but.. I am not sure what to do. I thought you may have some advice."

"Gregory, if I knew the secret to taming my brother's mind, I would have had no need to send him away in the first place."

"Anything at all, if there is anything at all that will help?"

The line fell silent for a moment so long, Lestrade was almost certain that the call had been disconnected. "Mr. Holmes?"

"I am sending over a few of Sherlock's things. I want to be assured that he will get them and will not have them confiscated. They'll do no harm to either him or any of the other patients."

"His things?"

"Yes, Gregory. You'll find that he'll improve dramatically after he has them."

"Yes Sir. And the boy..."

"John Watson?"

"Yes, sir. You were right about him, Mr. Holmes. Just mentioning his name brightens Sherlock considerably. He is definitely interested in him. In solving the puzzle, as you put it."

"Good. At least that is something, Gregory. Keep me updated."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I will."

They disconnected without any formalities or goodbyes, Mycroft simply setting down his mobile before he stood from the table to make his way up the long flight of stairs. He waved for one of the servants on his way, pausing just outside of Sherlock's bedroom. "I'd like you to bring up a few of the luggage pieces, the burgundy set, and have Jonah bring around the car. I am taking a little trip."

* * *

><p>Sherlock slept far longer than he expected to, no interruptions from Lestrade and very little noise from the hallway. Not even that Moriarty boy had come to bother him or steal more of his cigarettes. He woke of his own accord, stretched out in bed with few thoughts lingering in his mind and the pangs of a migraine slowly fading to something manageable. Almost hesitantly, the door opened, but Sherlock did not move.<p>

He listened, but he did not open his eyes nor twitch a muscle that would alert the sudden visitor that he was awake and very, very aware of the new presence. He listened to the uneven shuffling of hospital issued sneakers, the painfully labored breathing of someone doing something they likely shouldn't, and the faint sound of plastic being slid across the surface of his writing desk. He listened to the silence that followed as his visitor hesitated, and then he listened as the boy turned to leave.

Sherlock opened one eye ever so slightly, catching sight of a hideous jumper as the boy disappeared into the hallway, closing the door behind him. John... but why? He sat up in bed and looked over at the desk, a tray from the dining hall with assorted foods that all looks surprisingly edible. Fresh baked brioche from the smell of it, sliced fruits, and a steaming cup of tea, definitely not from the hospital's kitchen. Out of bed in an instant, Sherlock snatched up the tray and brought it back to his mattress, setting it down carefully to study the contents.

He focused first on the bread. It had cooled but was still considerably moist so it was likely baked the night before, a small bite of it confirmed his previous assumption that it would be edible and surprisingly delicious. He nibbled off another piece, moving to the decorative china bowl that contained bits of fruit. Dumping out the contents, he turned it over in his hands and a slight grin curled his lips at the engraving on the bottom.

_Harry Watson_  
><em>Love, Clara xxx<em>

A careful inspection of the matching tea cup confirmed his thoughts, the engraving found there as well. Looking over the food on the tray, Sherlock sipped idly at the tea as his mind whirled and his thoughts clicked together like the gears hidden within a well-made clock. He knew more about John now than anyone in the hospital could ever tell him, his story unfolding in the back of Sherlock's mind.

He slid a piece of fruit past his lips in time for Greg to step through the door, a look of surprise painted across his features. "Sherlock...you're...eating..."

"Yes? Perhaps if there was something in the kitchen that actually resembled food, I would have done so earlier." He raised a brow, sipping the tea with a satisfied grin at both the quality and soothing effect it had on his aching stomach. Making a point to take another small bite of the bread, Sherlock raised a brow before nudging the tray across his bedding. "Did you need something, Lestrade?"

"Oh yes, you have a visitor."

* * *

><p>Mycroft tutted his disapproval at Sherlock the moment the younger Holmes finally emerged from his room, a glance over his gaunt figure and obvious loss of weight earning a slight shake of his head. They regarded each other in tense silence for the longest of moments, each one standing their ground with chins tilted up and eyes narrowed.<p>

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked softly, knowing full well that his elder brother never made simple visits for the sake of hospitality. Certainly not, since Mycroft was the entire reason why he was incarcerated in the first place.

"I am concerned, like always." He shifted his umbrella in his hand slightly, leaning against the handle as he let his gaze drift around to take in the surroundings of the hospital common room and those that inhabited it. "And I've brought some of your things. Gregory has assured me that you'll be allowed to keep them."

"Why am I here, Mycroft." Nearly spitting his name, Sherlock looked down at the burgundy luggage and scoffed.

"You tried to kill yourself, Sherlock."

For once, Sherlock did not deny it. It wouldn't do him any good, regardless, not with his brother. He tensed his jaw, clenched a fist, and side stepped to grab a familiar wooden case leaning up against the wall, but he did not deny it. "Good day, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, I am only trying-"

"To help. Yes, I know. I said good day, Mycroft." He turned quickly and nearly lost the secret battle he was waging against the constant waves of dizziness, managing to only just make it within his room again before everything began spinning. He sat down heavily enough to send the cup of tea sloshing about, resting the case across his legs as he listened for his brother's footsteps to disappear from the hospital floors all together.

At the end of the hall, a mop of blond hair disappeared back within the room the second the eldest Holmes laid eyes on him, the door closing a moment later.

"That's John. He snuck food into Sherlock's room earlier, and Sherlock had been eating it." Greg stated, idly grabbing up a suitcase to have it brought down the hallway. "John rarely comes out of his room and never interacts with the others. It just doesn't happen."

"That John Watson boy will be good for my brother." Mycroft nodded to himself, pulling in a sharp breath as he shifted his umbrella. "Or make him worse than ever. Keep an eye on them, Gregory. And do try not to disappoint me any further?"

Mycroft gave him a glance before he took his leave from the hospital, ever aware of the steel blue eyes burning a hole through the back of his head from Sherlock's window as he slid into the back seat of the waiting car. The younger holmes watched and waited until the vehicle had disappeared out of sight before he moved away from the window, giving Lestrade no more than a glance as the few pieces of luggage were brought in and deposited against the wall.

Left on his own a moment later, Sherlock looked back to the matching china sitting abandoned atop the tray on his bed. He had better things to think about than why his brother felt the need to visit him, or why he was allowed personal belongings from the Holmes household. He had better things to occupy his rampant mind, to quell the storm of thoughts and rein in the chaotic maelstrom of noise that drove him to the brink of madness on a daily basis. Most of the mystery began with questions of why, answers that he could not deduce on his own without more information. Why had John spoken to him on that first day? Why was he bringing him food that was obviously meant for the blond boy to have? Why were they so similar in Lestrade's eyes? And most prominently, why was Sherlock so consumed with him that there was little else he could think about?

He needed to speak to John, to see what was in the other boy's room, to learn more about him before he could begin to unravel the puzzle that was twisting about in front of him. Sherlock picked a bit off the bread again, savoring the sweetness of it as he unlatched the wooden case and freed his violin. Before anything else, Sherlock needed to think, and the best way he could do that, was to play.

* * *

><p><em>AN: You are all so very lovely for your kind words. I know some of you had mentioned that the first chapter was a bit too much like Girl, Interrupted and I assure you it was completely coincidental. I don't intend for this story to follow any similar pattern to that movie, as fantastic as it was, but hope you still enjoy it. I will try to update bi-weekly, but I have very little free time, feel free to nag at me on twitter if I miss a deadline. Quinnzical__

_You'll get a bit more Moriarty in the next chapter, as Sherlock grows a bit closer to John. His absence throughout the last half of this one will be explained as well. Please do leave your comments, critiques, and reviews. They not only help me to plan these things out, but I do take all of your words to heart regarding quality of the story. I don't have an official beta, so you are all doing just that by telling me exactly what you think. Plus, reviews really do prevent Moriarty from turning you into shoes. I promise. _


	3. The Curtain Rises

**Chapter Three**

There were few rooms where Sherlock did not carry his violin with him. He would frequently have it propped against his chest in the common room, fingering the strings with a delicate grace as he seemed to gaze emptily at the other patients. It was ever present during meals, resting at his side as he made a vague show of poking at the food on his tray, eating what was edible. Never was it away from him during his weekly therapy sessions, a constant that was most certainly noted in his file the moment he stepped through the office door.

The first appointment he spent the entire half an hour bowing the strings with every piece of music that he could imagine, and a few new ones that sparked his creativity as the moment allowed. The therapist sat in silence and attempted to hide his indignation at this new means of being ignored, and Sherlock imagined that Mycroft's phone was ringing the moment the session had concluded. The second meeting found his therapist being allowed interludes of silence to ask probing questions, only to have them answered by discordant plucks of random notes and little else. The pen moved so furiously over the paper in his file that Sherlock was certain the friction would cause sparks.

It was difficult not to grin.

The third encounter between therapist and the youngest Holmes was not without the violin, but certainly lacked the stringy music between them. In this brief and sudden reprieve from the melodies and twining notes, a conversation occurred.

"You've been here nearly a month, Sherlock."

Middle aged and greying, though therapists always seemed to be losing the color in their hair, the good doctor sat behind a well-kept desk and lightly tapped the end of a pencil against the wooden surface. The room itself had little for decor, or little of anything really, though it was likely presumed to be kept empty for the safety of the patients and the man that conducted his business within. The only personal effects that occupied any space at all were copies of his medical degrees which hung in precise locations along the wall.

"Are you even interested in getting better?"

"There is nothing wrong with me." He insisted as he always did, craning his head slightly to look out the window as he caressed the length of the strings. The leaves had long started falling from the trees since Sherlock arrived at Wellington, and there were clear signs in the distant sky of the first snowfall. He would have to speak to Lestrade about an extra blanket in his room.

"So you continue to say, but you hardly speak, rarely eat, and you spend your afternoons starring at the other patients while you play your violin. There is also your suicide attempt..."

"Perfectly sound behaviors, though you are entirely wrong about most of your diagnosis." Glancing back at the man behind the desk, he cocked a brow, pursed his lips and firmly_ plucked _a note. "The food is atrocious, so why should I force myself to eat it. There isn't a sound conversational partner in this entire building, short of Lestrade whose inane drivel about the local sports teams is, in fact, enough to drive someone insane, and I am not staring, I am observing. My violin helps me to think and it was not a suicide attempt. I had a headache."

There was a quiet huff from Sherlock's lips, and a vague nod of the doctor's head as he jotted more notes along the blank spaces of his records. "What have you observed?"

"That you are an idiot." The doctor twitched his brow and Sherlock gave a flippant wave of his hand. "Don't worry, most therapists are. You all try to box away the eccentricities of people into quaint little categories when they don't fit into what is normal and acceptable, when you've done that, then they are labeled sick, ill, disturbed, and you try to fix them by filling their blood streams with medication. All that does is make them compliant and mindless; easy to control."

"You seem like a brilliant boy-"

"Your first correct observation, you're improving."

"-but you are wrong."

"And there it is." He rolled his eyes, letting his head loll against the back of the chair he was occupying.

Sherlock watched his therapist take a deep breath, the slow rise and fall of his chest cavity as he pulled in a large quantity of oxygen to quell the growing annoyance. Greying hair was not the only thing all of his doctors had in common. "Your brother checks on you quite a bit, he must care a great deal."

"Wrong!" He sighed.

"Wrong?"

"You are trying to change the subject to something familiar, my brother, in hopes that I will open up about my feelings regarding his abandonment of me. It will be a failed attempt, I will ignore you and you will grasp at straws trying to find another topic." The look Sherlock gave him said no more than 'no different than the others, a complete idiot. Daft, repetitive, can I leave now?'

"John Watson." The therapist said simply, leaning forward to flip back a few pages in the ever growing file. Sherlock said nothing, his hands stilling around the neck of his violin as he flicked his gaze to the man behind the desk. "Ah. I've grasped a straw."

"I have no interest in John." He tried, closing his eyes and shifting his leg up over the arm of the chair. His hands barely twitched against the strings.

"Yet, he brings you tea when your mood starts to slip and you play your violin every night, despite what must be a thick haze of sleep medication, in the moments before his night terrors. Quite successfully on several occasions, I am told, as there have been times where he has slept through the evening, completely undisturbed."

"It was an experiment."

"An experiment you continue despite continued warnings of the rules regarding lights out."

"Science has no regard for rules."

Sherlock flicked his hand through the air, and his doctor smiled before jotting down a series of notes. "Certain patients have been known to show improvement with their illnesses in shared living environments. You seem to have a silent rapport with each other, and I expect there to be no dangers for either of you with a new living arrangement. I would like to move you and John into a double room. What do you think?"

"I think I don't have an illness, so your idea seems rather pointless." Sherlock stood from the chair with the flourish he was so fond of, clutching his violin tenderly against his chest. His back turned to his doctor; he furrowed his brow and clenched his jaw. "Have we wasted enough of each other's time for one week?"

"You are trying to run away from this conversation, Sherlock. Why is that? I thought you would be pleased that you will be sharing a room with John." Patiently, he folded his hands together atop the desk and studied every single twitch in the wiry frame of the boy in front of him. "Are you worried that he will not like you?"

"Why would I care what he thinks of me?" He snapped, turning slightly.

"Because you're not dissimilar to John. Because everyone wants at least one person to like them?" He pressed his fingertips together and steepled them beneath his chin, taking careful note to the very slight way that Sherlock's shoulders straightened, forced rigid and tight. "Are you worried he will discover the secrets you've locked away in your heart?"

There was a scoff that sounded more like a choked laugh and the boy's shoulders relaxed momentarily. In these seemingly innocuous movements, a thousand little tells were being revealed about the youngest Holmes. The more relaxed and casual that Sherlock was, the more closed off he seemed to be. Only when he became cold a rigid did he seem to reveal any honesty about himself. The doctor silently noted all of it. "I have been reliably informed that I do not have one."

"By who?"

"Everyone." He offered an empty smile and strode to the window, his violin resting casually against his thigh as he watched a few patients mill about on the grounds beneath. Restlessness was beginning to crawl beneath his skin like an army of ants, itching and biting away at the core of him. He plucked a discordant note and let his forehead rest against the cool of the glass. Whatever it was that the doctor had tried telling him next, he tuned it out in favor of the hissing static of his own thoughts. They raged on as they always did but the constant flow of medication in his system was making them easier to tolerate, and the headaches less severe. It did nothing to quell his disdain for nearly everyone else that shared his breathing space, but he doubted that would ever change.

* * *

><p>Like the disconnected scenes of a dreamscape, Sherlock was in his room with his things being carefully packed back into his bags before he could acknowledge that he had walked across the hospital. The much loved violin resting back within its case, propped delicately against the folded blankets from his bed. Clothing from the Holmes household precisely lay within the burgundy suitcases, and his books, edges worn from repetitive reading, placed on top. He glanced over the collection of personal belongings, waiting to be relocated, and wished for just a moment that he was leaving Wellington all together instead of moving to a different room.<p>

"Going somewhere?" Moriarty crooned from the doorway, a delicate brow raised as he eyed Sherlock's belonging. Discontent rising within the chest of youngest Holmes as he watched the young Irish boy move to the bed to caress the case of his violin.

"Hm."

"I thought we were friends, Sherlock." He frowned, "I know I haven't been around much, been a bit busy, but that doesn't mean you should go and leave me."

"We are not friends." He moved quickly to snatch the case from beneath Jim's petting, holding it protectively at his side.

"That hurts, Sherlock. It really, really hurts." Jim sighed softly, taking liberty to lie on the bare mattress as Sherlock stood by and simply watched him. "I was going to invite you to play a little game with me too, but now I just don't feel like it."

"Games are for children."

"You would have liked it. We would have had so much _fun _together."

"Sorry to ruin your _fun_."

"Oh!" He sat up and the grin that curled his lips was anything but playful. "Oh no, I am still going to play. I worked so hard to set all the pieces up; I worked so very hard to put it all just how I want it to be."

"Has anyone told you that you're completely insane?"

"Constantly." Moriarty grinned, leaning back slightly to rest his weight on his hands. They regarded each other in silence until the sound of approaching footsteps broke from the cacophony of the hallway. Sherlock with his maelstrom of genius and madness swirling about in his mind, and Jim with the darkness in his eyes and the lazy grin that never quite reached them. "If you change your mind."

"Sherlock?" Greg raised a brow at the boys as he entered the room, eyeing Moriarty carefully while he gathered together a few of the bags and tugged them off the bed. "Ready?"

* * *

><p>John's room at the end of the hall, as Sherlock discovered, was already a double room that simply lacked someone to occupy the second bed. He also discovered, upon entering the room, that it was unlike anything he expected. It completely lacked anything that said John Watson had lived there for the last few years. There were no photographs attached to the walls or propped up on the dresser. There were no books, no trinkets, no gaudy stuffed animals or memorandum from his home life. The only thing that existed in the room that said anyone lived there at all, was a pair of shoes lined up perfectly at the foot of the bed and a closet full of clothing all precisely hung and folded along the flooring. Even the bed was meticulously made, perfectly turned down with the corners tucked <em>just-so. <em>It was almost unsettling how little information could be deduced from the room, and yet how much of a story it told when combined with what he already knew.

Not twenty minutes had passed as Sherlock emptied his things into the secondary closet before he heard a nervous shuffling of sneakers outside the door, and another five before John slowly limped his way into the room and immediately sat down on the bed. He expected to spend the entire evening in silence, since he had not heard a peep from the blonde in nearly a month, and was nearly startled when the quietest of sounds escaped from his lips.

"I'm John..."

"Yes." Sherlock raised a brow at him, pausing in the middle folding one of his shirts to give him a quick glance. John sat on the edge of the bed with his shoulders straight and rigid, his hands folded tightly together in his lap. Every now and then he would flex the fingers of his left hand as if fighting off an ache, his jaw clenching beneath a few remaining layers of baby fat that rounded out his cheeks. The curly mop of hair fell into his eyes, but he made no move to brush it aside, content to stare at Sherlock from behind the strands.

John shifted, almost uncomfortably, his eyes constantly darting towards the door despite it having been shut behind Sherlock when he entered. The silence between them grew thick, but not awkward, each simply lost in their own thoughts as the moments ticked by. John shifted again, and Sherlock turned, half poised in the process of hanging up one of his shirts.

He set aside his clothing in favor of sitting at the edge of his bed. John nodded, but said nothing as if the words were stuck firmly within his throat. There was no reason for his hesitation, none that Sherlock could see, as the young blonde had spoken to him [albeit briefly] on several occasions.

"Why are you here?" He nearly whispered it, clenching his left hand so tight that his knuckles paled.

"They felt we would do better as roommates."

"We know nothing about each other. How do you… they… know this is better?"

Sherlock smiled ever so slightly, his gaze flicking about the room to take in the smallest of details. He knew so much from so very little, and it all thrummed within his head as loud and steady as his own heart beat within his chest. "They're doctors, it is what they do. Isn't it?"

"I suppose so, but I'm not-"

A slight cacophony of noise from the hall interrupted their conversation, loud voices shouting for the orderlies who, in turn, shouted for the doctors. Sherlock's attention was diverted, and he was on his feet at the door before another word could be spoken between them. A stretcher being pushed passed the door caught his attention, not because of the rapid pace at which it was being shoved, but by the sheet covered lump of a [likely] deceased child. Inquiries and whispers rose up in the wake of the excitement from both staff and patients who were coherent enough to comprehend what had just happened. The looks on the faces of the lingering orderlies spoke volumes of how unusual the circumstances were, and Sherlock was instantly enraptured by the possibility of intrigue. More so, when glancing down the hall, he caught sight of Moriarty lingering off to the side as he often did, a curiously malicious grin on his lips.

"John..." Sherlock stated softly, stepping back within the room as the door clicked closed behind him. "I believe someone was just murdered."

* * *

><p>Lestrade was anything but forthcoming with any information whenever Sherlock had a moment to ask him about the incident. He was stubbornly tight lipped, but he was a terrible liar, and had notable tells whenever Sherlock's questioning breached close to the truth.<p>

"I don't know why you don't just tell me, I've already figured out most of it." He sighed in frustration as he paced the floor, his fingertips furiously twitching together. "There was a young boy, approximately twelve years old, who had been found in the lower boiler room, having apparently killed himself despite not having ever shown signs of being suicidal. The only things I haven't figured out yet are how he managed to get somewhere he never should have been, how he was murdered, and what he was originally admitted here for."

"The entire time you've been here, Sherlock, the first time I see you look genuinely happy is when someone has just killed themselves…" He frowned, shaking his head as he watched the young boy walking back and forth across the dining room tiles.

"Murdered." He nearly snapped, never faltering in his steps. "It wasn't suicide, it was murder. …but how…"

"It wasn't murder, Sherlock. He took a lethal combination of pills; there were absolutely no signs of a struggle."

"No…that's not right…" He huffed slightly, turning away from Lestrade as his steps diverted for the hallway. "I need to think, please do try not to interrupt me."

He gave a flippant wave of his hand as he walked away, disappearing into the room at the end of the hall. John had been reading a book when Sherlock reappeared, and though he lowered it in anticipation of a conversation, no words were exchanged between them. The taller boy simply picked up his violin and began to play. The music was soft and sweet, played so perfectly that there was no doubt that he had been in lessons since he was old enough to properly hold a bow in his hands. Soothing as it was, John had started reading again, but found himself nodding off into a sudden sleep before he was able to finish the fifth chapter.

"John." Sherlock said suddenly, waking him with a jolt as the dreamless nap was abruptly shattered. "There's another, John! Isn't it exciting?"

"Another?" He frowned, taking a moment to let the haze of sleep disappear from his thoughts and the ache in his neck from the awkward way he had been sitting fade to a dull throb. "Another what?"

"Murder, John! They keep saying suicides, but it was identical to the first! A girl this time, in the women's building. They found her an hour ago."

"An hour? How long was I asleep?"

"Awhile. I didn't want to wake you since you haven't been sleeping at night." He smiled slightly, carefully setting aside his violin as he settled on the foot of John's bed. "The murders, John, they're fascinating. They're being found in places they never should be, they take poison pills all by themselves. No one ever sees anything. And I thought my mind was going to rot in this place. I must solve this. I know Moriarty is behind it somehow, but he's had an alibi for both of the murders."

"Moriarty?" John furrowed his brow significantly, nearly curling into himself as he pulled his legs up to his chest. "He's dangerous, Sherlock…"

"Yes. More than I anticipated." His lips quirked slightly as if the possibility of dealing with someone dangerous was actually _appealing, _tapping his fingertips together. There was a hesitant moment of silence as Sherlock made careful plans and plotting, the sound of sheets whispering as John shifted on his bed. The tall brunette glanced at him, his jaw clenching as he contemplated numerous thoughts all at once.

"It could be dangerous, indeed, John. Dreadfully dangerous."

"What is?"

"We're going to catch ourselves a murderer." He grinned, delighting in the mystery and the excitement. Inching open the door to glance into the hallway, Sherlock did little more than wiggle his fingertips to signal his roommate to follow. John shifted up from the bed awkwardly; there was a new light in his eyes as he limped to Sherlock's side.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: I apologize for my very long hiatus, but I am hoping that I am back now that the dust has settled. You can reach me on tumblr, if you're ever wanting for discussion or RP. I'll even accept anonymous nagging to finish my fics. My URL there is <strong>this-is-a-fandom-blog<strong>_


	4. Swan Song

In the darkness of the room at the end of the hall, Sherlock was not asleep. Fully alert after having tongued his pills, he lay in silence and listened for all the little sounds of the other patients and employees of Wellington to fade into nothing. His fingertips tapping lightly together, his gaze trained blankly at the imperfections lining the ceiling. A soft breath and muffled snore came from the bed beside his own, drawing his attentions for a moment.

John was shifting in his sleep, as he often did on the cusp of a nightmare, little twitches as he fought the demons within his own subconscious. The smallest of whimpers had Sherlock out of his bed, his sheet resting lightly around his shoulders as he brought a hand to rest against John's arm, shaking him gently.

'John..." He whispered, nudging him again. "John, wake up. It's time to go."

"Sher'k" Muffled into the pillow as he slowly woke, became aware of his limbs once more, and the sticky feeling of sleep drool on his face, John turned to lie on his back and blinked away the remnants of his dreams. "Already?"

"Did you tongue your pills? Are you alright to join me?"

John nodded, sitting up to rub the sleep from his eyes and the haze from his thoughts. "Yeah, I'm fine. Where are we going?"

"The boiler room where the boy was found. I need to see the crime scene, but we don't have long before someone makes rounds. We will have to hurry." He smiled slightly and threw his sheet back on his bed, creeping to the door to crack it open just a bit. The hallway was empty and the other doors were all closed for the night, not even the evening security seemed to be paying much attention from his post. Sherlock turned to regard John with a glance as his shorter friend slowly removed himself from his bed, stretched and limped carefully up behind him. "Ready?"

"How did he do it, John?" Sherlock whispered as they slowly made their way through several doors, a few staircases (that were harder for John), and a number of narrow halls. "How does he make them take the poison?"

"Maybe… maybe he doesn't. It is a hospital, plenty of people here that are disturbed enough to take their own lives. Even I..." He paused, shaking his head, "The point is that, maybe they weren't murdered..."

"No... It was murder. There has to be something." They stopped as they came to the boiler room, and Sherlock was almost surprised to find it unlocked. It would have made more sense if it had been bolted shut, made inaccessible to any curiously prying eyes. He pushed it open slowly, carefully stepping inside as he glanced through the shadows for absolutely anything of importance. An almost overwhelming sense of disappointment coming over him as at first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary for a boiler room. Rusted and leaking pipes dripping water and hissing steam, spider webs, bits of rodent excrement, and dust; so much dust. A faint clattering from a far corner snapped his attention to full alert, John going rigid at his side. "...wait here..."

"Sherlock, wait." John had reached out, grasping the smallest bit of his friend's shirt sleeve between his fingertips. "Just...wait. What if you're right...?"

"Of course I'm right."

"Yes well, if you are right and this was murder, it isn't the best idea to just...go off into a dark basement by yourself where said murderer could be." He frowned and glanced about the room, looking for shifting shadows and expecting to see some wild eyed madman looking back at them.

"It's alright, John." He offered, wrapping his long fingers around John's trembling hand to still it, and like that, he turned and began making his way through a twisting maze of metal and pillars. In an instant John was left on his own in a creepy boiler room, with only the knocking pipes to keep him company.

"...Sherlock..."

Dust is eloquent, Sherlock had always thought, you can move any object in a room and place it back just so, but dust will never deceive you. It only, and always, speaks the truth of moments long gone, keeping careful record across every surface. A pattern of footprints, the empty places across ledges and shelving where a hand rested for just a moment, the gaps where someone had been leaning against a pillar and then slid to sit on the floor. Sherlock could stand in the middle of a room, and tell you exactly what happened there, hours before, simply by studying the dust, or lack thereof.

He followed a path of footprints, making note of which ones belonged to those who came to fetch the body of the boy, which were the boy's, and which simply didn't make sense in their existence. A pipe hissed nearby, a jet of steam filling the area with the tang of rust and metal, the fixtures creaking as water was pulled through the system. Sherlock raised a hand to cover his mouth and stifle a cough, leaning down to get a better view of the shoe prints through the haze of evaporating liquid. They led away from the scene, through a tangle of pipes, and into a small back room. Curious, as there were no other footprints to say that it was normal for someone to go there, not even a maintenance personnel or janitor.

Sherlock blinked away an odd sort of feeling behind his eyes, taking in a quick breath as he followed the prints and peered cautiously around the edge of the doorframe. He saw nothing, at first, just shadows and bits of light from fading bulbs. But in the corner, a figure stood and Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.

A woman, slender and tall, with an abundance of dark curls cascading over her shoulders, stood staring at him with a soulless gaze. Her features, sharp and handsome, her prominent cheekbones stained red, as was the rest of her. She raised a hand to him, slowly pointing towards the boy in the doorway as blood dripped from her wrist, puddling at her feet.

"You did this, Sherlock." She called to him, "You killed me."

"Mum..."

"You did this! You did this!"

He turned as fast as his feet would carry him, nearly stumbling over a bit of pipe as he ran through the expanse of the boiler room. Only John's arms stopped him running any further, his friend shaking him gently as he trembled, stammered, and tugged at his own hair. "We have to go, John, quickly."

Sherlock shook off the concerned grasp, taking off at a sprint up the stairs. Undeterred by a limp, John ran after him.

"Sherlock…" John managed as the door to their room closed behind them. He watched as his friend furiously paced the small amount of floor they had, shaking his hands around to stop the trembling of his fingers, muttering quietly under his breath. With a hand through his curls, Sherlock finally sat at the edge of his bed and took to staring at his fingers. "What did you see?"

"Look, John..." He said quietly, holding out one hand to show the amount of tremors that shook it. A nervous laugh falling from his lips as he blinked heavily and pulled in an uneven breath. "I'm...afraid..."

"What did you see...?"

"The impossible..." He shook his head as if it would shake the image from his mind, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the palm of his hands. "I can't trust my own eyes; I don't know what is real. I saw her, she was there..."

"Who did you see?"

"I don't even know if you're real." There was a choked sob at his lips as John sat beside him, his breathing rapid and uneven as John took his hand. He looked up, with eyes wide in terror and confusion, and found nothing but comfort staring back at him. Slowly, he linked their fingers together and found solidity in the squeeze that was given in return.

"I'm real, and I want to help..."

* * *

><p>"You've made great improvements in the last few weeks, John." The doctor started simply, flipping through various pages of the file with his name on it, making notes where he saw fit. "You and Sherlock are getting on better than you expected? You've become friends."<p>

"Mhm."

"Your limp is gone, and you've been speaking." He noted aloud as he read through the pages upon pages of recent documentation. A quiet hum at his lips as the good doctor glanced up from the scribbled words to regard the boy standing at the window. "If this continues, John, and I hope it does, do you know what that means?"

John glanced away from the window only for a moment, realization of what was to follow oddly condemning. He should be delighted at the prospect, thrilled, bouncing off the bloody walls, but he could only feel a cold grip of foreboding digging its fingernails into the core of him.

"You'll be able to go home, John." The doctor paused and sat back in his chair, folding his fingers together as he watched John's attention go back to the window and those out in the courtyard below. He was intrigued at the unexpected reaction to the news being given, where he expected far more delight. "Aren't you glad, John?"

"Yes." He stated quietly, the whole of his attention drawn to the curious scene below where Sherlock and Jim Moriarty stood shoulder to shoulder in rapt conversation. John let his hand rest against the cold glass, watching as the heat from his skin left behind a steamed outline. "…Of course."

* * *

><p><strong>The Personal Journal of John Hamish Watson, Age 19. <strong>

**November 24th.**

_I told him what the doctor said, and he said very little to me in those following days, though he said very little to anyone at all. In fact, if I am remembering it correctly, the only words that ever passed his lips were "Piss off, Lestrade." I didn't mind, since our friendship wasn't based on our long and life changing conversations with each other. He still played his violin as often as they would let him, and I would read through the books that I was allowed to keep in our room. Looking back on it now, I almost wish I had made more of an effort to talk to him while I had the chance. There was so much about him that I didn't know, so many questions that I never thought to ask, and so many things I never had the courage to say._

_It was a Tuesday when he finally broke his silence, and set in motion those unforgettable events._

* * *

><p>"I solved the case." He muttered softly, shattering the silence of weeks passed, almost dejected at his own genius and it was unsettling to John. Gone was the brilliant glow and vibrant light that followed his brilliance. It was as if the solution to the final problem ghosting around in his head was one that he had rather wished not to have worked out at all. John's hand found Sherlock's and without a word, he allowed himself to entangle his fingers around those of his friends. The commons room grew silent to the two boys as they sat together on the sofa, the world ceasing to exist around them for one glorious moment. There were no suspicious suicides, there was no Jim Moriarty whispering hateful things in dark shadows, there was no impending separation due to one clean bill of health. It was just them and one unexpected friendship. "When are you expected to leave?"<p>

All good things, as they say.

"Monday." John glanced at him at the slight squeeze to his fingers, not knowing whether it was a vague attempt at clinging to him, or perhaps a small show of comfort. Regardless, he returned the innocuous action. "Was it him, Sherlock? Moriarty?"

"Mm." The quiet hum of his lips said yes and no all at the same time, but little more was broached on the topic as more patients and nurses began milling around in preparation for the day's events. He fell suspiciously silent on his revelations, and John could do little more than lose himself in the feel of Sherlock's hand beneath the pad of his thumb. "You've been brilliant, John. I've never had a real friend before you."

"Sherlock..?"

"No matter what happens, never forget that. Promise me."

John stared at his friend, anchored to the moment by the warmth of his skin and the slight pressure of their hands pressed together. He nodded, just once, but said nothing as the staff signaled for lunch. Sherlock's hand slipped away from his own as his friend stood from the sofa, leaving John to wonder why it felt like that would be the last time they'd ever sit together.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Personal Journal of John H. Watson <strong>_

_**January 15th**_

_He disappeared to our rooms for a while before the nurses came to take him to see the doctor; he missed lunch and then supper as well. When he wasn't there at lights out, I knew that whatever he had figured out was far bigger than the games of Jim Moriarty and whomever else he had working with him to torment the patients. I had no idea the scope of it, though, and looking back I am certain that my ignorance was intentional by Sherlock. The less I knew, the safer I was, he must have figured. He was always such a selfish git. _

_I did see him once more before I left Wellington. One final goodbye._

* * *

><p><em>Back from a very long hiatus. <em>

_Thanks for reading, and if you ever want to bother me to finish a fic, you can find me on tumblr.** t**__**his-is-a-fandom-blog**_

_ Please review or comment. I do rather like getting your feedback. _


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